Killer, a Chris Rodriguez fanfic
by Clara Fonteyn
Summary: Who was Mary, and why was Chris calling out to her in Battle of the Labyrinth? Chris’s thoughts--and feelings--while he was mad and in the Big House. Written for round 2 of PoW12's First Annual Olympics.


**Killer**, **a Chris Rodriguez fanfic  
**_By _Clara Fonteyn

**Written for Round 2 of PowerofWords12's Annual Winter Percy Jackson and the Olympians fanfiction Olympics. Thanks for not kicking me out, guys. I appreciate it! :)**

_Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians._

_***_

I rock the chair, back and forth, back and forth, in ugly, awkward movements. The red plastic squeaks against the tile on the floor again and again, creating a high pitched sound that hurts to hear. It's dark in the cellar of this house that I know. There's a musty smell here, like smoke and dust and years. Years piled up on each other, filled with pain, coated with anger, loaded with hate.

I am not in control of my body anymore, but I can see everything happening here. I can feel the undercurrent of tension now, I can feel the war that is about to break out. It's like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon in the middle of a moonless night.

Patches of sunlight break through the grimy windows, casting a watery light on the ground in odd patches. I can see treetops from the bed. I suppose that the bed is clean, but my skin crawls from the smell. It's the smell of death. I know that too many to count died in this basement, and were disposed of quietly, in disgusting, horrifying ways. Luke told us all.

To avoid thinking, I squeeze my eyes shut. I know immediately that it's a mistake. The dark cellar walls spin, the brown tint on everything is gone--but in it's place there's a red brick arena. Thousands are seated, jeering at the two in the ring. I don't know who they are, but they're humans. Or half-humans, at least.

The beast rises, holding up a hand to silence the crowd. There's a smirk on his face. Slowly, he turns both his hands and points his thumbs downwards. I know what that means. Both will die.

Shuddering, I slip my hand into the chilled fingers of the one standing next to me. I don't know who it is and I don't care. If I can, I'll find out later. Right now I can't focus on anything…

I have never seen death on such a close way. It's not how I imagined.

There is no glory. The romance of fighting to the death is gone. All that remains is the terror on the boy's face. His eyes wide. His mouth open, trying to remember everything he's ever learned. Trying to survive. And his opponent? He isn't more than a year younger than me, and he, too, is trying to live. He's trying to save his life against one who just yesterday might have been his neighbor, his friend, his brother.

It's horrendous.

_I don't want it_.

What? I ask myself in shock. There's no time for second thoughts, not now. There is not enough time. There _is no time_. There _is no space_. Nothing exists now besides this deathly red arena. There is nothing but the fight, I tell myself. Look at the battle. Watch how he kills the other. It might save my life on the ring. Still, I cannot convince myself. I close my eyes again and wait until I judge the battle is over.

My estimate falls short. I open my eyes to see a sword pierce a boy's body. Screaming, I back away, as far as I can. I need to leave. I need to go. It's pure survival instinct.

"The sun of Poseidon," I screech. "He's horrible!" In the real world, the one where I am sitting on a red plastic chair, I can feel someone's hand on my shoulder, a comforting touch. A voice says something, I can tell, but I don't what it is. I try to break out. I yell, but it doesn't work. I scream again, but the sound disappears in the uproar in the arena.

The next thing I know, a pair of rough hands shove me onto the ring. My heart starts to pound at a rate that's dangerous, and my breathing turns to hyperventilation. For the first time, reality strikes me: _this is death._ This is a true game of life. And if you lose, you will never again taste rain, never see streetlights, never feel a hand through yours. Death.

So what can I do? I must fight. It's a primordial instinct, an ancient need. But before I raise the sword in my hand, I look up at the person I must fight. And when I do, my heart stops beating.

_Mary. _

No! I refute this truth. NO! I can't fight Mary. Not Mary, with her black braids running down her back. Not Mary, with her purple pen always with her. Not _Mary_! I can't fight Mary.

I look up at the son of Poseidon imploringly. _Not her_. But as if he senses my pain, he smiles cruelly, his eyes as hard as stone. "You're horrible," I whisper again. Slowly, he raises his hand, and the battle begins.

All I can do now is to tell her to run. I scream. I plead, I beg, but she doesn't listen. I can see the proud look in her eyes. She will not run. Anything I do now will go to waste.

I spar with her, on the defense, now on the offensive, but I can't see with tears blurring my eyesight. I go by instinct, trying not to think about my tricks. I'm afraid that if I do, if I intentionally _kill her_, then I'll be a murderer.

Metal clashes, and sparks fly into the dusty air. I try not to see anything. I can't lose and I can't win. I don't want to live if I win. As the coward I am, I don't want to die. I can't choose, and at that moment, I bemoan my life.

I wished I was never born, but I am here now. And now I have to win, because if I don't, then I'll die. And that I cannot accept.

She never sees her death coming; she's picking up her knife from where I knocked it down. So with a final scream, I raise the blade so that it is parallel to her neck, and then I strike. I hear her scream, but I dig the sword a bit further into her neck, so it severs the vocal cords. She cannot make a sound.

And now she's dead.

I cannot believe I did it. I killed her.

And along with her death, a little bit of my own life died. I lost my sanity, and as soon as I could, I ran. I ran, because I was a coward, and I ran from what I thought I wanted most. I ran away from my action, my own decision. I ran from what I was: a killer.

_I __just __killed __my __own __sister, __Mary __Rodriguez_.

***

Reviews appreciated. Thanks! :)


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